


Akatosh Dilemma

by FriendlyNeighbourhoodNecrodancer



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-30
Updated: 2016-09-03
Packaged: 2018-08-12 01:05:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7914424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FriendlyNeighbourhoodNecrodancer/pseuds/FriendlyNeighbourhoodNecrodancer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Dragonborn sat in the Hall of the Dead with nothing to disturb him. No sun, no wind, no sound. Just the dim light of the lamps pouring down his back, enough to make out the names carved on the gravestones before him. But they were already carved into his thoughts, a mantra that followed him every passing moment of his life.</p><p>Others had their own mantra. War. Disease. Famine. Death. Where is the Dragonborn? Where are the Divines?</p><p>It was his fault, he knew. Skyrim's blood was the blood of her champions. Her cities bore statues in their likeness. Her armies rallied around their swords. Her songs roaring their glory. Skyrim needed a champion. And that would never, truly, be him. There was a break in the silence, the cry of Ondolemar's murder rousing him from his thoughts. Bolstering the sound, heavy bells were sounding the alarm. He left the hall and from afar, he watched as the guards abandoned their posts, rushing towards the scene. Nobody saw him slip through the city gates. They only heard the knells of loss.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Welcome

So many possibilities. From every sword through the heart, and insect in the wind; from the wildest fires to the passing clink of a rusted coin, worlds were made. Choices and chance creating timelines beyond count but the Dragon God had many heads and could watch them all. 

In one, a bandit was slumped against a wall, his blood spurting out of a gash in his belly. His gang had called him Krev and he pushed his remaining hand down over his wound, crimson snaking out from between his stubby fingers. He could hear screaming from further down the mine, desperate and wailing, quickly cut short by sharp teeth and jagged claws. His head was strangely clear now that he was dying. He tried to recall what had chewed off his hand and opened him up like a tavern wench's shirt but _a Nord’s last thoughts should be of home_. He couldn't remember who told him that, maybe his father before Krev put an axe between his eyes and looted the clothes off his back. Now he remembered. It was a fucking Dunmer, of all people who had entered the mine. He didn't see Krev, crouched in a shadowy corner coming down off a skooma high, so Krev shivved him right in the spine and started rummaging through pockets.

  _A fucking were-elf._ He chuckled through a froth of blood.  _What kind of Nord dies to a_ _were-elf?_ The echoes of pained screams which once had bounced wall to wall, stopped. Dathis had thought he had finished a job, his hand against the mine door when a groan caught his attention. Dathis unhooked his crossbow and found Krev where he left him. Krev raised his stump, eyes wide "Divines, mercy-". Krev was cut short. A bolt had sprouted out his neck. And Dathis left the mine.

 

Akatosh sighed in approval. Furious in war, cold in execution. Everything a Dragonborn should be. Another world caught his eye, its glimmer like a glass splinter in the great dunes of Alikr. Still, his eyes caught it, and studied it close.

Feuren stood, the setting sun at his back, leaning on the sword he clasped between his gauntlets. Krev could see him from across the plains, the blade glowing furiously, the sight of it making his blood rush from skull to toe. He jaunted forward, giggling as he yanked on the chain behind him, the clanking and whimpers making his mind run raw.

"Oh, marvelous. Finally, we can talk. Just you and me, alone." Krev felt faint with giddiness, wrenching on the chain to calm his nerves, the yelps of pain a slave for his soul. Feuren's face twisted beneath the fur, slitted eyes narrowing.

"You wanted Khajiit here. Khajiit is here. Let the little ones go." That puzzled Krev. Granted, Feuren was big, but he wasn't a small man himself.  _Oh._  He was so excited to meet the great Dragonborn, he had completely forgotten. His eyes went to the chain in his hand, and followed it to a mass of weepy eyed little whelps. _Those children._  He smiled to himself. The great Dragonborn, asking _him_ , little ole Krev tohelp find some brats? It made him feel so fuzzy inside and he was already in a good mood.

"Oh, why not.  _Anything_ for the great Dragonborn." He let the chains clinker out of his hand, faintly aware of the cluster of faces staring at him from behind the towering warrior. "I just wanted you to know, before I, well, kill you, that I'm your greatest admirer. I hope you don't mind if I take your skin as a cloak." Krev drew his sword, brandishing it forth like a cleaver. "Skyrim's such a cold place to live."

"Then may you die warm." Feuren swung his sword wide, arcing over his head, catching the sun's glint as it moved. So bright, Krev had to shield his eyes from the glow. When it stopped, Feuren's sword was aflame from hilt to tip. _J_ _ust like the legends._ Krev's eyes went wide, as did his smiled, his sword silver lightning as it crashed against the Dragonborn. 

 

Akatosh had no interest in watching them fight. Feuren's blade had sang the same song hundreds of time's before. It would sing for many years more. More interesting was the hunt, the fleeing prey. All Dragon's knew its call. Akatosh fixated his gaze on such. 

Silinis threaded another arrow into his mulberry yew bow, never once breaking pace as he ran down his quarry. He knocked and drew the arrow back in one fluid stroke. Too slow. A lance of ice rushed to impale, forcing Silinis to jerk to the right and his arrow flew far to the left. He threw himself behind a stump of a tree, as Krev kept up his desperate onslaught. His left brow burned cold where Krev's spell grazed against his skin, nary an inch away from piercing his eye. Through his back, he could feel the dead log splintering away, cracking under a furious barrage of ice. The air around drew colder but eventually the sickening thuds against the wood slowed. He could feel the sweat on his back freezing. Gloved hands plucked an arrow from his quiver, dipping it into a vial at his belt. He held it loose, counting the seconds between each jarring crash of wood and frost.

"Last chance", he yelled out to the mage. "Face your sins with some dignity."

Krev answered with a cackle. Destruction magic was living up to its name. It was close to turning the old oak to a clump of splinters. But while the spells was potent, Krev was beginning to falter. He began gathering the last of his magic into a swirling storm, flinging it to Silinis' death. The miasma tore at the grass, leaving a deep frosty groove. Maybe the exertion of all that magic had clouded Krev's judgement. Silinis rose, leapt over the ruinous log and loosed. The arrow burst through the whirling tundra. With a ghostly glow, it slammed into Krev's chest. Krev's vision began to dim, but still he edged his spell forwards. His heart beat once, once again, then no more. With its master, the blizzard died, turning to a ghostly puddle of snowflakes at Silinis's feet.

 

Akatosh relished the seconds that carried Krev from living to dead. But Dragon's nature was not of a simple hunter. There's was to dominate. To crush for the sake of crushing. To exist untouched by whatever moved against them.

Dovahiel dreamed and in her dreams, she was always a dragon. Even when she was young, and her parents left her to die by the fires of the Ash Mountain, the monsters in her dreams chased a runt of a dragon, not a young Dunmer. In her dreams, her scales were glossy, grey and steamed in the cold air, not like her skin which was dull and littered with scars. Her claws tore stone and plate but when she woke up from her bed of scalding grey dust, her hands could barely wring the the necks of rats whose teeth left a map of scars on her hands even when she was a woman grown. 

She didn't have many happy memories of her childhood. The first hot meal she could remember was a charred cliff racer. She was still living in the Ash lands and was too old for the villagers to pity her, too young to sell her flesh to any brothel and too wild for any of the priests in the temples. She thought the winged rat had died flying too close to a volcanic vent up on the mountain. And so she tore its wings out of it sockets and sucked greedily at the half-charred flesh and grease. She didn't care that she knew, as soon as the sky above her was blotted out and a roar like thunder pierced the air, that a dragon was coming to claim the cliff racer. It was the first meal she had for three days and nights. Let me be happy before I die. Instead the dragon mistook her suicidal despair for bravery.

The dragon gave her a home, a cave that was never cold. The dragon gave her his scales, for she had none. The dragon gave her a voice and a name and... something was wrong.

She wasn't alone. Her dream shattered and like cold water, reality hit her. Her eyes opened with a sharp intake of air filling her lungs. Groggy eyes took in her surroundings. Once where the fire that lit Nordic ruin where she had began her slumber was gone now, only small embers in the braziers were left to chase away the dark. Someone was fiddling at the door. Dovahiel reached for her hammer, and waited. She could hear tumblers rising and falling, picks breaking, one after the other, someone on the other side quietly cursing. There was a satisfying click and the doors flung open, letting snow and sleet into her dry ruin.

Finally, Krev hit a spot of luck. The tumblers quietly clicked into place as he worked his pick through the door. Some poor soul was waiting on the other side. An expensive soul. Whilst in Morthal, he was approached by some wench swathed in mourning robes, who begged him to kill some other wench. She gave him some directions and shoved a bag of gold into his hand, with the promise of more gold and something extra when he returned. Well, Krev wasn't one to refuse gold, especially from such a lovely lady. A smile full of perfect white teeth stretched across his face as he prepared to carve.

And let out a choke as Dovahiel's hammer cracked against his jaw, turning his teeth to pink splinters, lost among the snow that gushed through the open door. She needed only one look to see the silver glint of his daggers in the moonlight. Rage bubbled up and boiled inside her. Dovahiel drew back, the blood on her hammer seemed to smoke in the frosty night air. Again and again, the sickening crunch and screams were lost among the swirling storm outside.

Soon she was slamming pieces of skull and brain into granite. But she was cold now. She dragged his body out into the winter night, leaving a thick red smear through the snow. As if Krev was the mangled head of a snake, a crimson slush followed him, from the door to his steaming flesh. The oaken doors closed, braziers relit and before Krev's body was cold, Dovahiel was a dragon once more.

 

All this was pleasing to the Dragon God. The one with a merciless heart. The one proud and powerful. The hunter and his prey. The unyielding and brutal. The Dragonborn's may passingly pledge themselves to lesser gods, but they were his children. His creations. And through them, his aspects became known in the world, immortalized among the mortal.

And all was well, the Dragon God said. He drifted into slumber, satisfied.

That is, until the sound a splintering glass roused him from his sleep.


	2. Knelos

Some said the Stormcloaks were done. Said they died with Ulfric. General Carserth taught them the Stormcloaks were not dead and those that sullied their tongues with such words had no use for one. As long as there was a Thalmor still breathing Skyrim's air, the Stormcloaks were _not_ done. Striking Legion supply lines, striking at the Thalmor and keeping the elves and beasts in their rightful place. _Protecting_  Skyrim, even if her people were too scared to admit it.

Carserth knew what fear could do to a warrior. He knew it was not death that Skyrim feared. What scared them was dishonour. Their souls never seeing Sovngarde. Their bodies sent back against their friends. Their names stolen away from the people who loved them.  _Knelos scared them._ Carserth had two hundred battle-worn veterans of two hundred battles at his back, clad and armed in fine Nord steel. But as they stared into the mouth of the dark cave that gaped before them, he could smell their fear leaking through the gaps of chainmail and plate.

Tracking the bastard down had taken them three years and a sea of blood and gold. _A price worth paying tenfold_ _,_ as far as Carserth was concerned. _With the mad mage dead, the Empire will have lost their teeth._  Knelos murdered Ulfric. He murdered the Stonefist, Wet-Pommel, Oath-Giver and friends beyond count. Carserth never met the Dragonborn. A disappointing man if half the stories were true. But he was born of Skyrim, her champion. And Knelos stole his life and soul.

General Carserth turned to his men. One hand bore a torch, the other drew his sword and pointed it to the stars.

"Warriors!" He started, northern storms in his voice, "My brothers in Sovngarde smile upon me. Because tonight, I'm going to avenge my king. I'm going to honour my fallen brothers, sisters and friends. Knelos hides like a worm in that hole he calls home. Well, I don't know about you but I'm going to march down there, _drag_ him out by his tail and beat every drop of blood he's got out of his stinking hide! Whose with me?"

If his speech was loud, his men roared with the thu'um, every one of them baring their fury, all the fear burned away by the fire in their blood. He charged into the darkness, half blind in the dark, half drunk with valour, the tremors of an army thundering behind him.  _Can you hear that, Knelos?_ Roaring howls echoed their descent.  _Skyrim's wild rage, coming to tear you apar-_ his head exploded with pain. The roars ebbed as his men fought the force of their own charge to a clumsy halt.

 "I'm fine!" Carserth roared, struggling to his feet. By the light of his torch, he could see what blocked their path.  _A Nordic puzzle door._ _He makes a mockery of our forebears._ He could feel his fingers twitching, a vein throbbing in his neck.

He sheathed his sword and dropped the torch. "Warhammer, now!" One made its way into his hands and the moment he felt its heft, he slammed the head against the stone. Eight strikes later and there was barely a crack in its surface. "Knelos!" He roared, "I know you're in there. Come out and try to die like a man!"

 A long silence followed. And stretch. And stretched.

"Busy", came a voice through the stone,"come back later."

Carserth could hear his teeth grinding together. He pounded on the door again. "Listen well, mage! I have two hundred warriors outside this door. How long do you think your door will protect you? Come out now and I'll make it swift, just you and me. Make me wait and it'll come slow. Either way, we're going to parade your body through the streets and Skyrim can see what we do to monsters."

The cave was quiet but for the heavy breathing of the Nord warriors. "Two hundred warriors, you say?"  _The mage is truly mad,_ Carserth decided, _he almost sounds relieved._

"Aye, two hundred Nord warriors, the finest killers Skyrim has ever seen and you have taken kin from every one of them!" No sooner did he finish the words did the door begin to rumble, sliding into the ground. Already he could see the other side was brighter, the dark of the cave dancing away from what shone on the other side. He whispered to his men. "Enter but do it slowly. Flank him if you can."

They entered the chamber and the first thing Carserth noticed was that the room was not lit so brightly so much as the dark was trying to flee from the gruesome book that floated on the far side across them. Fat red candles, dripping wax like blood, circled the floor beneath it. Around it, the air was darkened like swamp water, filled with grasping arms, gnashing fangs and eyes that stared as if they could do naught otherwise. Its cover was some strange leather of many different hues and stitches. It held itself in the air, pages turning from the kraken-like tentacles that spawned between them.

As perverted as that thing was from a book, so was its author from a man. Knelos' face was a silver mouthless mask, only his amber eyes left free to glow. The rest was black leather, from neck to toe. It made him look more carrion crow than man. And he was looking at them like they were a freshly slaughtered pig. He rose a hand and the door behind them rumbled shut.

Carserth's knuckles went white against the warhammer's handle. Around him, he could hear the whisper of swords leaving their scabbards, the clink of arrows leaving their quivers. "Any last words or have your wits truly left you, mage?" Knelos tilted his head, amber eyes as piercing as a spear. Carserth was tired of his stares and silences. "Archer's, loose!"

Bowstrings hummed but a whip crack was the last sound he heard before pain lanced through him. His eyes were hit with a light so harsh, it felt like they rang like bells. Something hard and cold slammed against his back while his thoughts faded to black.

"I should thank you for your help. If it wasn't for you, do you know how many bandit camps I would have to find? Somewhere in the region of five and thats a lot of leg work." Carserth groaned.  _Alive. I'm still alive._ He was sure that was not a good thing. Even groaning felt like swallowing ants. He pushed himself off his back. Everything was blurry and when he tried to rub his eyes, he found they were covered in dust. "Oh, I wouldn't do that if I were you." He blinked his eyes clean and found Knelos looming over him, broom in hand.

"My men," he choked out as best he could, "where are my men?" He watched Knelos' amber eyes drift from the broom to his hands.

"They're....around. What's really important is that you're alright." Carserth racked his memory.  _There was a flash. Then pain._ He frowned.  _Lightning. And the dust..._ He began to wretch, acrid spew wetting his throat with a sting. "Why?" He gasped through bleeding lips. "Why are you doing this?"

A long silence. Knelos crouched down beside him, leant in close and whispered like sand over sand. " _Take_ a look and _see."_ Knelos' gloved hand held him by the neck and twisted it, almost gently, over to the far side of the chamber. Carserth had no choice but to watch the book. The book's long arms grasping through the cloud of white wisps, filling fistfuls of writhing lights and stuffing them down its gnashing maws. "Those are your friends souls, Carserth. Correct me if I'm wrong but I'm quite certain thats not the way to Sovngarde." Carserth's heart plummeted through despair into rage.

He clenched his fists, lunging at the shadow just outside his reach. "You _monster_. You fucking _monster_! How could you, those were Nords, good men! Honorable men! They were fighting for their families, for their children, their families!" Tears burned their way down his cheeks as he struggled to his feet. "What's wrong with you? What kind of man-"

"Spare me your judgement." Knelos hardly looked at him, working his broom over a particularly slippery patch of dust. "Every mother and father in Skyrim knows the reputation your army holds. I could kill your army five times over and still not match the number of children you've put in the ground." A clank of armour caught his gaze. "You're on your feet. Good." Knelos pulled a ruby red vial from his belt and threw it into his chest.

"Drink it. You said if I let you in, _you'll make it swift, just you and me._ I need to thank you for your help. I'll give you a warrior's death. You'll go straight to Sovngarde. If you want to be in any state to fight, drink." Carserth threw the drink down his throat and in an instant, snatched up a sword from the ground. Pain flew from him, strength flooding through his veins.

He shouted the first thing that leapt to mind. "For Ulfric!" Sword in hand, he flew towards his mark, just as an frozen lance ran through his chest. He tumbled to the floor, so close he could grab Knelos' boots if he tried.  _No. Its over. Its all over._ Already this world was fading from him, the dancing dark in the room, the dust beneath his nose, the gurgling of the book and the cold in his chest. He was heading towards the light.  _The golden clouds of Sovngarde._

It was like falling asleep on a featherbed. All the pain was gone, all the shame, all the horror. Carserth head swam as he took in the beauty around him. Great statues dotted the land, seeming to watch him as he passed beneath. He had never seen golden fields or skies of rainbow storms. He followed the path before him and in the distance thought he glimpsed the Hall of Shor across the whalebone bridge, Tsun waiting to greet him. He broke into a sprint towards the feast where Skyrim's heroes celebrated for all eternity. But with every step, his feet grew heavier. He fought til it felt his bones would snap but still he was brought to his knees.  _No, gods no, please, not when I'm so close._ Darkness swam over his eyes and he awoke on the dusty stone.

"Again, thank you for your help." Carserth, eyes wide, snapped towards that impossible voice as he started to wail. "No. Nonononono, I was dead. I was dead, I was in Sovngarde. I can't be here. I cant be!"

"Its the wonders of modern magic, my friend. Remember, it was you who made this all possible." Knelos snapped the book shut and laid it on its pedestal, where it sat not entirely still. Gone where the arms and gnashing teeth but tentacles drifted over the cover and eyes lined the spine. "My spell seems to work, I think. But a few more tests never hurt. On your feet Carserth. We all know cowardly Nords never make it to Sovngarde."

Carserth put a hand to his chest, the last he saw of it was speared on an icicle. It was whole, but the pain of it felt so real. He picked his sword up again, but this time, went slow.  _Charging was how he got me last time._ Carserth went light on his feet, closing the distance between them one step at a time. Knelos cast quick, a fistful of flames rushing him down like an arrow. Carserth threw himself left and it soared over his shoulder. More followed but Carserth was closing the gap. He ran serpentine, the spells that hit him glancing, the distance between them closing fast. They were so close now. He raised his sword, ready to bloody it.

The next step he took engulfed him in flame. He noticed the etching on the floor too late. _Fire rune._ The pain was worse than anything Knelos had hurt him with before. Blind in one eye, he could feel something drooling down his face and he dreaded to imagine what it was. His sword glowed red and fell from charred fingers, then he staggered, joining it on the ground. And still he wasn't dead.

Knelos kicked the sword out of his reach and knelt over, eyes glowing like twisted suns. "Don't worry, Carserth. You'll soon be back in Sovngarde. You can frolic in the golden fields and drink with all the heroes. Gaze up at the swirling sky and climb all the statues you want. Send Tsun my regards."

It did not last for long. He made his way past Tsun, and had his hands on the Hall of Shor's door when Knelos dragged him back.

Carserth cursed him with all his might but one thing stuck in his memory. "You talk of Sovngarde as if you know it. I told Tsun of you. He's never met a Knelos. How?"

He could only imagine how Knelos looked beneath the mask but now he knew him to be smiling. "You can't imagine how pleased I am you remembered that, Carserth. I think my tests are done. This will be the final time I bring you back, that I promise you." Knelos raised his hands and Carserth ran, throwing himself behind one of the pillar that littered the chamber edges.  _One of my archer's died here._ He pulled the crossbow from the pile of dust, trying desperately to nock the bolt in place.

"Tell me how, Knelos. Give me that at least." He tried to hide the panic in his voice as he bought time for his sweating fingers to work. A silence followed.

"There's no harm in you knowing, I suppose. I'm the Dragonborn, Carserth. Imagine that."

Behind the pillar he shook his head. "No. Thats not possible. You killed him. All of Whiterun saw you do it. The Companions swore by it."

"The Companions wouldn't know an illusion spell if it slept in bed with them. I  _am_ the Dragonborn. I killed Alduin. I fought besides the heroes of Sovngarde and saved every one of you. Ask Tsun if you want. Ask him about the Dragonborn, who fought with Felldir, Gormlaith and Hakon." His voice was drawing closer. Carserth notched the bow and span out from behind the pillar.

"I guess that makes me a Dragonslayer."

But Knelos was nowhere in sight. "It appears you wouldn't know about an illusion spell either. Maybe conjuration will be more familiar" His voice echoed from afar. Carserth scanned the shadows of the chamber and found one that looked more human that it should.  _He's hiding behind the pedestal._ He ducked back, thinking of how to move against the mage when a drop of slaver and a growl boomed into his ear. His neck felt stiff as stone as he twisted towards the ghostly wolf snarling into his throat.  _Familiar._

 


	3. To

Silinis shielded his eyes from the great sparks of the lightning storming around him, he found his thoughts drifting back to how he had found himself here.

He made his way to Riften Keep and tossed Krev's head at the steward's feet. Gold was exchanged. He left and made his weekly trip to the Orphanage. The wood was wet, the planks creaking beneath his boots. Moonlight burned down onto the canal surface, casting shimmers across the stones. Fireflies danced around the Deathbells, their glow turning the flowers a sickly pale of yellow. He knocked on the door and Constance Michel answered.

"Oh Silinis, its good to see you. You're here for Marcy, yes?"

"Thats right, Michel. How has she been? Eating, learning?"

"She's doing great. Always eats her greens and she's such a quick learner, its like she teaches herself. We've started on the Dragon Wars, she loves those old books." Michel's smile fell with her eyes. "There was a incident with one of the other girls but-"

"What happened with one of the other girls?" His tone made Michel pale. "No, its fine, I'll ask her myself." He moved himself through the door, Marcy where she always was, waiting for him at the table, this time with her face in a book. He altered his step so that it creaked against the floorboard, her attention caught with a smile.

"Silinis!" No one else squealed like her, a ear bleeding screech that somehow warmed him inside. She threw himself into his chest, knocking the wind from his lungs. Silinis closed his eyes. One day, if he was lucky, he would be lying on his death bed and this would be the last thing he felt.

"Hey kid. Michel's been telling you're learning about the Dragon Wars. You learned about the Dragonborn yet?" She giggled, tapping her fist against his arm.

"Yup! Not from Michel though." She picked her book back from the table, holding it as high as she could against his chest. He took one look and the cover and grinned.  _The Book of the Dragonborn._ "Is it really true? You're the last Dragonborn?"

"I'm not sure. We'll just have to wait to find out." Marcy frowned, his answer not the one she was looking for.

"I hope not. I wan't there to be Dragonborn's like you for ever and ever and ever and ever."

"Well, not all Dragonborn's were like me." Silinis took a seat at the table, Marcy on the chair next to him. "Now tell me, what was this incident Constance Michel was telling me about?"

"Oh, that." Her face turned pink and began to scrunch. "We were playing swords in the garden and Runa wanted my stick. She told me swords were for Nords, not dumb little elves."

"And what did you do next?"

"Nothing, until she tried to take it. Then, I gave it to her." She started to beam and Silinis noticed a gap in her teeth, a bloody spot of gum where a tooth once stood. She must have noticed the tightness in his lips. "Did I do something wrong?"

"No child. Its good that you stood up for yourself." He reached into a pouch at his belt and handed her a bag. "There's sweet treats in that bag, Marcy. Tomorrow, I want you to go to Runa and share them with her." He expected her to be angry, kick up a fuss, but all she did was ask him why.

"Because its just important to learn to forgive as it is to stand up for yourself. I dont expect you to be friends with the girl, but I wont have you two running around trying to stab each other in the back. You have to make peace with your foes. Do you promise to give it a try?"

She nodded reluctantly, and Silinis knew she would do it. "Thats a good girl. Now, which book do you want me to read tonight?" She pointed at the book laid by his hand. "I thought you already read this book?"

"I did. I just want to hear you read it." So Silinis sat beside her bed and read The Book of the Dragonborn until she closed her eyes and began to softy snore. He stole out of the room, and not a single one them stirred. He told Michel what he told Marcy and she promised to keep an eye on them, so he left satisfied, stepping into night.

If that was his heaven, this was his hell.

In one small step, he went through the Orphanage door and found himself in the crushing dark. A magelight came to his hand, and he was in Riften no longer. Dust carpeted the floor. Spires of stone reaching towards the ceiling and ground. Tables upended, just visible at the edges of his wavering light. He had wandered for what seemed an age, before he found the others.

Feuren, the Khajiit knight, who greeted him firmly and cordially. Dathis, who greeted them with a crossbow in his hands, and Dovahiel, who jested and poked until Dathis sent a bolt at her chest. It snapped in half against the dragon skin she wore and then her jokes were about sending a hammer through his skull. The dark was quiet but for her laughter, until she told them of the body she found, lying cold against a grand stalagmite jutting from the ground. 

Feuren drew his sword, a furious blade that lit up the room in shades of sunset and blood, and then they saw him, a faint patch of black hiding in shade. They edged closer


End file.
